Beyond Your Smile
by redexted
Summary: It is almost impossible to smile on the outside without feeling better on the inside. Or is it? A little Draco contemplative.


(Update: This was written during one of my really mock-angsty years and during the pre-_OotP_ period. The style of storytelling here has therefore been edited and polished for ease of reading. Even so, I don't deny that this has become a canonically incorrect portrayal of the Malfoy family, in the light of _The Deathly Hallows_.)

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) J. K. Rowling. The supposed 'other side' of Draco belongs to maybe a few million fangirls out there, so there's nothing much I can do.

**Beyond Your Smile**

* * *

He listened.

The silence was so loud, and the stillness so evident, he couldn't even sense his own breaths. The specks of dust caught in the shaft of moonlight from between the two curtains seemed to cease their movements.

He realised how alone he was.

His silver-grey eyes glanced around the whole room, taking in the deep green colour of the circular walls; the tapestry hanging from the railings, half hidden in the shadows; the pure white candles glowing a pale orange halo around the room; and finally, his own reflection in the mirror – his only companion, worn out and unfamiliar before him.

"You lonely, prefect?"

Surprised at his own voice, his lips curled into a smirk, which his image returned. A small gap appeared in the mahogany frame, and the mirror spoke:

"_I beg your pardon? Are _you _complaining? You should know that it's a privilege to have your own dormitory . . ."_

It trailed off and paused, as if considering. ". . . or perhaps, you are just missing the laughter you used to share with your friends?"

_Friends?_

_. . . Laughter?_

He had quite forgotten how to laugh, or even to smile. Shifting his position on the solitary four-poster bed, he gave his smile another try. As expected, it was malevolent and bitter, twisted incomprehensibly in the way he called a 'smile'.

"I cannot do a . . . nice smile," he finished, attempting in vain to sound convincing.

"_And what, to you, is a 'nice smile'?"_ the mirror questioned.

_Just a genuine one, without having to hide it beneath layers and layers of falsehood._

_. . . Just like the one I have always given her._

– – –

". . . Do you remember what I have told you before, Draco?"

_I can hear your words, but I cannot guarantee that l will listen to them._ "Yes, Father."

"Very well. _You_ shall tell me."

"That I will just be good and do my best in Hogwarts from next year onwards, until I am to serve the Dark Lord upon graduation." _And it does not mean that I will actually do it._

Father looks satisfied, and leans back into the upholstery of the high-backed chair. Mother stands beside him, and speaks not a word.

"Draco, you have to understand that as our only son and the sole descendant of the Malfoys, you will have to shoulder the responsibilities and uphold the honour of the family. And I desire of you to be a Death Eater even more superlative than I aim to become, and worthy enough to be a follower of the Dark Lord."

"Yes, Father." _But I never said I wanted to be one._

Mother looks at me, and frowns slightly. She has on a lovely grey chiffon dress under her black robes, and I do not see why she cannot give a smile to go with the dress.

"And."

I look right at Father in his cold, stern eyes, the same eyes which I have inherited. _I don't want to do it._

"_Smile_. I am sure the Dark Lord would not like a disconsolate child to carry out his orders, does he?"

_I don't want to do it. A smile is not a promise that I will listen to everything that you say._

But I smile nonetheness, only to please my father.

"Lucius, my lord, I . . . I hate to say this, but if Draco does not want to think about . . . about what he wishes to do in future, then why do we not let him be free to choose — "

"I will _not_ repeat my words, Narcissa, and nor will I allow my son to go astray on his thoughts and actions." Father cuts off Mother's voice, and he sounds dangerously cold. "You are getting more and more ignorant, and that I will not tolerate. You know perfectly well that no matter what happens he must — "

I can hear him seethe under his breath as he pauses suddenly, and his knuckle turn white around his silver-tipped cane. He turns to me and stares me down with his steel grey eyes.

"Get off to bed," he says quietly. I hold back my desire to protest, and merely mutter a "Goodnight Father", slowly walking away from the hall. A house elf finds its way to my side.

"Frisky will take Young Master Malfoy to his room, sir," it squeaks, scurrying along up the marble staircase and down the dark, dungeon-like corridors. The torches blaze into life as I walk along, and I am reminded of how I never can figure out why there are so many floors and so many long corridors with ten doors at each wing, when there are only the three of us living in it – excluding the house elves.

The coldness of the stone floor seeps through my shoes and to my feet. I shudder slightly.

Frisky opens the black door to my room and steps aside to let me in. He then kindles the fire to a small glow and says, "Young Master Malfoy will sleep, sir."

I nod distractedly, trying to listen to Mother and Father talking downstairs. But the elf shuts the door with a dampened bang, and I am left alone.

As quickly as I can I change into my nightgown, trembling, wondering what Father will do this time. I leave the forever temporary sanctuary that is my bed, and grasp the curlicued handle of the door. The door opens slightly, and the hinges creak. I hear the echoes of Father's voice ringing from the other end of the corridor, but I cannot make out the words.

Frisky has gone back to the kitchens, and none of the other elves are around. I inch along the hallway, my footfalls silenced by the ancient weaves of the carpet. The eyes of the people in the portraits follow me, and scowl in disapproval. I am afraid of being found out by Father, and of facing the consequences, but deep down I am even more afraid for Mother.

_I do not want to see her cry again._

At long last I reach the stairway and sit down on the topmost step, curling my fingers around the wrought iron of the last railing. I peer behind the rest, and catch a glimpse of the front hall below: Father is standing now, and Mother is shaking slightly before him, her head bowed. Her face is hidden behind her blonde hair, and desperately I wish it is still untouched.

". . . not supposed to be portraying his emotions on his face like a piece of parchment any Mudblood can write upon. Furthermore, what you think and how you have been brought up is unimportant to me. He is a Malfoy, a potential follower of the Dark Lord, and you know the requirements."

The fragile silence that lingers between them refuses keenly to shatter. Then, I hear the dangerous edge in Father's voice, clear as glass.

"Don't you, Narcissa?"

"Yes, Lucius, I understand. I apologise for being so soft on Draco earlier — "

"And you still dare to mention _that _word!" In a flash I see him grab Mother by the collar of her robes and hoist her off the ground; I hear her choked gasp, and feel something cold clench at my throat.

_Let her down!_

"Have you any idea what you have been doing to him all this while, my dear Narcissa?" Father whispers, and only the wakes of his syllables reaching my ears let me figure out what he is saying. But then he raises his voice, in indisputable anger:

"You are softening him, depreciating his self-will, turning him into a _weakling_!" He throws Mother down, hard onto the floor. "Never, ever show excessive emotion for anyone, and never expect him to display any sentiment that suggest signs of weakness!

"Now get up."

Mother's hair is splayed all around her as she remains in her half-lying position, unmoving. _Don't defy him, Mother. Please . . ._

"_Get up._"

_Mother, please, get up from the floor, stand up strong . . . Don't give him an excuse to hit you again, Mother . . ._

Father narrows his eyes, and withdraws his wand, almost lazily, from inside his sleeve. "I assume you have learnt your lesson," he says, softly. Then he points.

"_Crucio._"

Mother's screams resonate throughout the Manor as she writhes and twitches under the Curse. I wish and wish that I can help her, but I know there is nothing I can do. I cannot disarm Father. I cannot shield Mother. I cannot call for help. I cannot even watch any further. Instead I curl into a ball, and tremble, until Father has lifted the curse, and Mother's voice is reduced to mere echoes in the vastness of the house.

I don't want to look.

Through the minute gaps between my arms I see the flame flicker in the nearest torch, stirring incessant in invisible drafts, over and over, as I wait long enough to asusme that Father has retired. In the nearest portrait there is a white-haired man — my great-grandfather — with a pince-nez and robes of deepest black. He narrows his eyes at me, folds his arms behind his back and leaves the picture frame.

Too soon I hear Mother, and her subdued sobs, and her padded footsteps coming up the marble stairs. I catch sight of her dishevelled golden hair, and with a flow of silver-grey of her crumpled dress she scoops me into her arms. Her weeps are muffled and shallow as she keeps drawing sharp breaths near my ear. I hold her tight and shut my eyes, despairing.

– – –

He finally understood what had transformed his smile over the years.

It was his deprivation of a proper childhood, despite him hailing from a respectable family of pure-blood wizards. Lucius had never really been his father, and had only seemed to be the epitome of authority, and fear, and a living example of what he was to become one day. There was no other way he could go, there was no way he could change — he could only follow in the footsteps of his father.

And his mother . . .

She had done everything a mother would. She was affecting: she fussed, she cared, and she loved. It was she in whom he sought solitude, but only in private. Yet it was also she whose smile he found most gratifying to see, ever so sincere and geniune, with nary a trace of fear of Lucius' presence.

It was only before her could he return this same smile; in front of everyone else, he hid himself under a constant mask bearing his trademark smirk.

_Even now._

He walked towards the mirror, and knelt down before it, slowly raising a hand to touch its cold surface. Cocking his head slightly to one side, he traced his fingers over the image of his own lips, and the distant, untrue smile they formed. What was is but another delusion, shielding only more unknown truths beyond?

Why, then, did he have to pretend that he did not care about anything? Why, then, did he have to act as though his life was as truly perfect as he wanted them to assume, that he always had everything he ever wanted?

In his own eyes — deep pools of perpetual grey — he saw the lurking shadows of both his past and present, witnessing the anguish he and his mother had gone through at home, under the Cruciatus and Imperius curses. So how could he still pretend that everything was fine?

His reflection quivered, and whispered softly, _I hate him._

Yet he only directed this hatred, this irrational anger at Hogwarts, and nowhere else. There he became the sarcastic, malevolent Draco Malfoy the Slytherins loved and the Gryffindors abhored. The Dream Team, radiating such companionship and everything else he could not be, instead became his target of mockery and taunting.

_But I never really meant to . . ._

He closed his eyes.

How he sometimes envied them, for being so cheerful, so blatantly explicit. If they detested Snape, they showed it. If they liked that half-giant Hagrid, they did not bother to hide it. He, on the other hand, had to be sardonic, and forever pretending to think the entire opposite, and spite them, and conceal what he was . . .

_Are you jealous, then?_ A quiet voice asked.

"No," he said firmly.

_Yes,_ came the whisper in his mind.

– – –

It is most satisfying to see the Potions master wave his wand over Potter's cauldron — yet again — with an "_Evanesco_," leaving the cauldron empty and Potter standing by it foolishly. I let out a small laugh and, as usual, he casts his glare of utmost hatred at me.

I place my flagon of clear green liquid on the front desk, and proceed to clear my things. All the while I can hear Potter speak feverishly in an undertone to Weasley and Granger. And automatically, as I walk past them — with Crabbe and Goyle predictably lumbering in my wake — in the corridor, I plaster on a spiteful smile and sneer at them, especially at Potter.

"Slimy git," I hear Weasley mutter under his breath. By reflex, I answer in a most derisive manner, "Language, Weasley," and, remembering the mouldy paste in his cauldron earlier, continue. "And I suppose you've gotten zero marks for your potion as well, haven't you?"

Weasley tries to say something, but Potter holds him back by an arm, shaking his head slightly.

I click my tongue. "Should've known . . . Potter's been living over the holidays at that place you call your 'home'? How deplorable. It's no wonder the two of you speak language of the same — "

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Oh, and now you're defending your poor little weasel friend, Potter?" I smirk, as contemptuously as I can. "I guess sooner or later you'll be standing up for the Mudblood over there . . ." I throw a glance at Granger, who looks positively fuming.

"_Don't you call her a Mudblood!"_

I cannot help but snicker at the sight of Weasley's ears turning the colour of his hair. But what disappoints me is that Granger doesn't flare up the way I expect her to — so that Snape will have a reason to dock a few sorry points off Gryffindor; instead she takes a deep breath and remains composed.

"Come on, Harry, Ron . . . we'll be late for Transfiguration. Leave that wimp and his cronies alone. You'll get nothing but gibberish out of them . . ." Her tone is miraculously unwavering as she pulls the other two down the other end of the corridor, and I catch Weasley's muttering: "Like father, like son . . . both prats."

I turn swiftly away from them, and make my brisk way in the other direction. For a moment there it chilled me, the way Weasley said his last words. But I said not a word, and paused at nothing.

"So what d'we do now?"

"What else?" I snap, a little too touchily, "Charms. And shut up unless you think you're asking an intelligent question." Sometimes I myself do not believe that I am on talking terms with Goyle or Crabbe; their brains are the size of their eyeballs, generously speaking.

Just as I am approaching the Charms classroom, a whiff of potpourri catches my nose, and Pansy is all over me again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Draco, I didn't mean to make you wait. It's just that Millicent's cauldron leaked and her potion burnt a hole in the dungeon floor and we had to clear up and . . ."

"As if I'm waiting for you," I say, my voice icy, and ascend the stairs. She does not seem to get my words, and simply clings on to my arm as usual. Crabbe and Goyle utter not another word again.

Now I wonder.

I wonder why they always seem to be smiling so much. I wonder why they laugh together, and even share together miscellaneous comments behind people's backs, most probably mine especially. Yet, right here, Crabbe and Goyle do not seem to be attempting to make any sensible conversation, and are instead enlarged twin shadows existing only to carry out whatever orders I may have. They seem not to have a mind of their own, like the wooden puppet toys Muggle children love so much.

Pansy — she cannot stop ranting for even a minute, jabbering trite nonsense into my ear and giggling aggravatingly between lines, forever tugging at my arm and thinking that I am thoroughly enjoying all her attention. I know perfectly well, though, that I hear more than I listen.

_And yet . . ._

I know I am to neither show nor speak of my weariness of them, especially Crabbe and Goyle. Should I offend them in any way, their fathers — as well as mine — would know, and ultimately, I would be the one at the losing end.

At the next staircase landing I halt abruptly, and turn to my three tag-alongs. "I'm going back to the common room," I tell them. "Don't bother to wait for me or cook up any excuses for my absence. I'll take care of whatever that comes."

As I turn to walk down towards the dungeons I hear Pansy's incessant whining fade off from behind me, and I smile, a small and secret and mildly bitter smile, to myself.

_There, I've gotten rid of them. For now._

I try to stride with head held high, but only find myself staring down.

_. . . Is this what I really want?_

Footsteps, sharp against stone, echoing every day in this castle like they have done, under my feet, these four years. I have had four years worth of image and reputation to upkeep — and for that, I can only continue feigning.

Now I walk alone, and the corridors are empty. Filch passes by, merely snorting as I walk, neither of us deterred. Yet in his wake I seem to see the Potter and his friends laughing at him. I see, belatedly, that they are able to confide in one another in times of trouble, while I cannot. Such friendship, and trust, and sincerity, are curious qualities, which I have heard of, and read about, but which I do not know in person.

The silence around me seems to confirm this.

– – –

It was not a lie: he was jealous. Yet he only felt worse, knowing full well that no matter how successfully he could maintain his perfect image, in truth, beyond his apparent smile, he was more real and so much more flawed than anyone else.

_Prefect._

_Imperfect prefect._

His arm fell, limp, onto his lap. Unwittingly he asked, his voice reduced to a mere whisper, "Will I ever be able to express to anyone how I really feel?"

"_You cannot smile on the outside without feeling better on the inside. And if you do feel better then yes, that is a truly genuine and unhidden smile."_ The mirror let out a sigh and fell silent, lifeless again.

And as he gazed into the looking glass he found a solitary tear, trailing slowly, unknowingly, from the corner of his silver eyes, down the pale face that was his reflection, and ever more.

_-fin-_


End file.
